


In the Face of the Evidence

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Morse unconscious following a vicious beating, emotion threatens to trump police work in Cowley Station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Assumptions

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place 3 or 4 weeks after Home.

By the time Morse notices how dark it is outside, he’s alone in the office. He doesn’t mind; he thinks best in the quiet, without the hundreds of distractions a room full of people inevitably causes. At night, the world is just the yellow circle of light cast by his desk lamp, and he alone controls what enters that. No paperwork on vandalism, no write-ups for disorderly behaviour, none of the petty make-work projects some of the sergeants take pleasure in dumping in his lap.

Tonight, though, hasn’t been a huge success. Morse hasn’t made any perceptible headway on the string of car thefts he’s been assigned to investigate, unable to parse out any significant threads from the tapestry of witness statements he collected in the course of the day. It is the first day he’s made it all the way to the end of his shift without any ache whatsoever from his hip, though – and while possibly his only achievement today, it’s still notable.

Morse rises without a wince and switches off his desk lamp, leaving the office dark and colourless. He passes through that grey world only to emerge into a new one as he pushes past the heavy station door and out onto the street. Although Oxford has passed through the depths of winter, the air still smells of frost and grey clouds lie low and heavy in the sky above. Morse can remember nights in his undergraduate years when the city seemed almost as bright and open as in the day, when he could make out street numbers and licence plates half a street away. Tonight the streetlamps struggle to cast their glow to the sidewalks below, the city wrapped up in a thick gloom.

Peering at his watch, Morse estimates the bus should be by in a few minutes. They often run late, though, and he can feel the frost creeping in under his collar. Cold and restless, he decides to walk back to his flat instead and starts off through the narrow streets.

Unnoticed behind him, a dark car parked by the side of the road starts its engine. Without turning on its headlamps, it rolls into gear and pulls out into the street after him.

\-----------------------------------------------------

It was an alarming day in Fred Thursday’s life when he realised that his children were now the ones tucking him in to bed. He had fought it, and inevitably lost, and Win had laughed at him. That was several years ago, though, and he’s long since stopped worrying about it – though not about them.

The phone ringing rouses him from deep slumber into a blurry half-wakefulness, but it’s not until Joan calls him that he actually wakes. “Dad. Dad wake up. It’s the hospital.” It’s more her tone than the words that rouses him, but he plays them back to himself as he struggles out from under the warm covers and pads into the hallway, and they cause him to step a bit quicker. Being called out of bed isn’t that unusual, but cases come through the station, not the hospital. He leans over to look through the door to the dining room and check the clock: 11:15.

“Thursday,” he says into the receiver, straightening and motioning Joan to go back to her room. She gives him an unimpressed look, but retreats up the stairs.

“Detective Inspector Thursday?” asks a pleasant but detached voice – the voice of someone who spends long hours on the telephone.

“Yes,” he says, turning to pick up a pencil in case it’s needed.

“This is the Radcliffe Infirmary. We have a DC Morse here. We rang the station house, and they gave us your number as his contact,” she says, in a matter-of-fact tone. Thursday feels the receiver slip in his grip, his palm suddenly slick with sweat. His other hand drops to his side, pencil forgotten.

“Morse – what – was there an accident?” he manages through the rising fug of fear, voice very gruff. Behind him he hears Joan coming back down the stairs, and waves her away furiously without looking around. There’s a memory clamoring very loudly for attention in the back of his mind, the memory of another night taking another call like this. He shoves it forcefully into the deep recesses of his thoughts.

“He was found knocked down in the street about half an hour ago. His condition is serious but not critical. We have also reported it to the station officially.”

Thursday’s mind skips right over that. “Fine – right. I’ll come in. Thanks.”

The woman makes some reply, but Thursday’s already ringing off, then calling the station’s night desk. “DI Thursday,” he barks when it’s answered, going on before the duty sergeant has time to give more than a brief greeting. “DC Morse has been involved in an accident. Have you sent anyone out?”

There’s only the briefest of pauses. “Two constables to the site, sir, and we’re sending another one on to the hospital now.”

“Have him run by and pick me up on the way.” Normally, he would ask. Although there isn’t any technical difference between a DI’s request and order, the former is the accepted courtesy. Right now, he can’t manage it.

“Yes, sir. Should be by in ten minutes.”

“Fine.” He hangs up, and turns to see both Win and Joan standing in the hall in their night dresses. He wipes his hands on his trousers, then strides over to give Win a one-armed hug. “Morse has been in a street accident. I need to go to the hospital. They say he’s not in any danger, just a bit banged up.” That’s a mendaciously loose interpretation of the message he was given; he can only hope it’s true.

“Oh, the poor boy,” murmurs Win, squeezing his side. “You’d better get dressed, Fred.”

He nods and glances at Joan; her eyes have a wide, startled look to them. She gives him a forced smile, though, and pushes her hair back out of her face. “Mum’s right, Dad. No one at the hospital’s going to want to see you in your PJs.”

“Right you are.” He retreats up the stairs into the bedroom, hears Win follow him and close the door. She sits down on the side of the bed as he pulls open the wardrobe.

“Wait until you find out more before you start worrying, Fred,” she says, softly.

He knows better than to protest that he wasn’t. “Ten to one, some bugger just didn’t see him crossing the road. He will wander about with his head in the clouds.” The levity rings very hollow.

Win sighs. “Oh, Fred.” He finishes tucking a shirt into a hastily donned pair of trousers, and grabs a tie from the drawer before turning to see her face – full of worry, for him as much as Morse. He drapes the tie around his neck and sits down beside her. The bed slumps under his weight, tipping her in against him, and he pulls her in close.

“It won’t be like it was before, Win. Whatever happens – whatever’s happened. I promise. So don’t worry, alright?” he says gently, into her hair.

“That’s a bit too much of the pot from you, Fred Thursday,” retorts Win, with just enough humour to let him know she believes him. “Up you get, now. Best wait outside; you don’t want to wake Sam.”

“Nothing short of a train running through the house would wake him,” protests Thursday, but he gets up anyway. He ties his tie on the way to the door, then pulls on his winter coat. Win switches on the porch light just in time to illuminate a bobby’s silhouette through the glass. Thursday opens the door right in the face of a shocked-looking constable, hand still upraised to knock.

“Brixley, sir,” he says, redeploying his hand into a salute. Thursday nods, turns to give Win a tired smile, and then steps out into the cold night.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Brixley knows no more than Thursday does, so the drive to the hospital is conducted in a terse silence. Thursday’s dropped off in front of the main entrance while Brixley peels off to park the car; he doesn’t bother to wait for the lad.

Thursday is very familiar with the Radcliffe Infirmary; usually, he’s here to pick up files from DeBryn in the mortuary, more occasionally to question patients. Now he steps over to the clerk at the admitting desk and gives his name. “I’m here about DC Morse.”

She directs him without having to consult any papers. “Yes, he’s in the second unit. Upstairs on the left, room 203.” He vaguely recognizes her voice as the one he spoke to earlier. He nods his thanks and heads for the stairs.

As soon as he enters the ward he finds the familiar smell of antiseptic, along with the severe clinical whiteness of everything – white walls, white doors, white linoleum floor. The ceiling lights are banked, only half of the fixtures on, giving it a less harsh appearance than it takes in the day. The wide hallway is empty except for one lone nurse down at the far end, carrying a tray. Thursday, used to the noise and activity of days in the hospital, finds the silent gaping corridor surreal.

203 is near the stairwell, and the door is open. Thursday pauses just outside the threshold, eyes closed and hand resting on the reassuring solidity of the doorframe. It’s the thought of Brixley finding him there that forces him to work up the courage to step inside the darkened room.

Morse is lying on the bed, eyes closed. He’s been laid out like a toy soldier, all straight lines and tidy angles. Morse, who walks with a deprecating stoop, slumps crookedly when sitting and never, ever stops fidgeting. The wrongness of it makes Thursday’s heart twist; he rubs his knuckles hard against the ribs right above it to try to drive the ache away.

There’s a band of white gauze wrapped about Morse’s temples, and here at least his usual untidiness has asserted itself – wisps of red hair stick out stubbornly above and below the gauze all the way round. Beneath it his face is pale except for a long dark bruise over his right cheekbone, running from ear almost to lip and punctuated at its darkest point by a rectangular piece of plaster doubtless obscuring a cut. His lower lip is swollen and split in the middle.

“Morse?” Thursday asks, quietly. And then again, louder, when there’s no reply: “Morse.” Morse doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch.

They’ve dressed him in a white hospital gown and pulled a blanket up to his shoulders, obscuring whatever his other injuries may be. There’s a clipboard hanging from the hook at the foot of the bed, but Thursday knows from experience that the notes there will mean next to nothing to him. And he needs to know what this is. Needs to know now.

Thursday glances at the door: no one visible in the hall, and no footsteps. He pulls down the blanket and shakes Morse’s shoulder very gently. No response. Thursday slips a finger under the neckline of the thin cotton gown, and lifts it high enough that he can see Morse’s chest below.

Thursday feels his jaw tightening, teeth grinding harder and harder together as his free hand fists unconsciously.

The entirety of Morse’s toast rack chest is blue and purple. The thick pattern of raised and mottled bruises is one no car would produce, but it’s familiar enough. It comes from being pummelled like a punching bag.

Morse has had the shit beaten out of him, just like Mickey Carter. Mickey Carter, who never woken up.

There’s no stopping the memories that have been trying to overpower him for the past half hour now. When Brixley enters, he finds Thursday sitting in the chair in the corner, staring into the distance with a look so grim the constable doesn’t dare to say anything. He slips out in silence, leaving the DI alone with his past.

\--------------------------------------------------------

When Strange gets in in the morning, it’s already all over the station house. No one gossips like a copper, and nothing gets around like bad news, two facts which combine to spread the story across Oxfordshire like lightning.

It is, in fact, the first thing he hears, before even “good morning.” As he walks in a mate from the night shift, Peters, stops on his way past the door. “Have you heard about Morse?”

Strange shakes his head, only mildly curious. Morse has been a constant source of gossip to the station since he arrived – Oxford boy, choir member, Opera murders, on-again off-again bagman to Thursday, family drama, missed sergeant’s exams. He develops new facets of interest to the rumour mill with amazing regularity.

“Someone roughed him up last night – did him over good and proper. He’s in hospital. And the Guv’nor’s beating the war drums.”

Strange, who was expecting either a girl or a promotion back to bagman, feels like someone slugged him in the gut. “What?” he demands, rounding on Peters so fast the constable takes a step back.

“’S true; some bloke coming home from the pub found him lying in an alley off Percy.”

“Mugging?” he asks, speaking the first thing that comes to mind, and immediately regretting it. It’s a daft suggestion; this is Oxford, after all – muggings are rare enough, muggings with extreme violence are practically unheard of. Violence – _messages_ – like this are far more personal in nature.

Peters shrugs, face blank enough to hide whatever he thinks of Strange’s suggestion. “That’s all I know, mate.”

“Yeah, right. Thanks.” Wits slightly more gathered, Strange bounds up the main staircase and into the office.

Jakes is standing by the door with a file in hand, “Did you –”

“I heard,” interrupts Strange, before he can finish. “How is he?”

Jakes shrugs, not unlike Peters; the apparent indifference raises Strange’s hackles. “Dunno,” Jakes says, not noticing. “But Inspector Thursday’s got a man watching the room until we know more.”

“Right. Sure. You aren’t picking up the Inspector?” Strange walks over to Morse’s desk and stares down at the clean surface. His tray is tidy, typewriter empty. There’s a cheap notebook sitting crookedly along one side of the desk, and the blotter has a few numbers jotted down in pencil, apparently taken in haste when no paper was near to hand. Apart from the telephone and pencil cup, that’s it. It could be anyone’s desk. Except that most men keep a piece of themselves where they work – a picture, or paperweight, or cigarette tray. Morse’s desk is blank, anonymous.

“Decided to drive himself,” answers Jakes from behind him; Strange isn’t really listening. He doesn’t pay attention to the sound of the door opening, either, but the sharp “Sir,” from Jakes makes him turn.

Inspector Thursday rolls into the room like a thundercloud, radiating terseness like an electric current and causing the entire room to straighten in reaction. He ignores Jakes’ greeting and pushes past towards Morse’s desk; Strange steps sharply out of the way.

Thursday stops behind Morse’s chair and glances down at the desktop Strange was just examining, eyes flitting over it meticulously. Only then does he look up, clearly knowing himself to be the centre of attention. “Right. I’m sure you’ve all heard that Morse was done over last night. He’s in hospital, and the doctors can’t say for sure when he’ll wake up. Strange, you’ve got his cases – split yours with Jakes.” Thursday pulls off his own coat, hangs it on the back of Morse’s chair, and seats himself at the DC’s desk.

“What about Morse, sir?” asks Strange. Thursday gives him a very straight look, the kind that slices right through you without mercy; Strange has to stiffen to keep from shivering.

“I’ll take care of that, Strange. You just mind those cases.”

“Yes, sir.” He turns away as Thursday opens Morse’s notebook and begins flipping through the pages, and sees Jakes shaking his head at him reprovingly before returning to his own work. Strange grits his teeth and heads for his desk.

\-------------------------------------------------

Thursday only has to read through three pages of Morse’s narrow scrawl before he finds what he’s looking for. Morse’s notes are sparse and erratic – while relatively legible, there seems to be no logic to the facts and details he chooses to note down. Here and there he’s recorded names, addresses, and times (although rarely two together) but the only other notes are mostly just one or two words – things like “bicycle” and “year bought?” and “keys.”

Fortunately, Thursday doesn’t have to try to make sense of Morse’s random entries; it’s a name that draws the neat line between the DC and Thursday’s past. Arthur Lott. Thursday snaps shut the book and pockets it, standing without any care of the floor so that the chair’s legs scrape harshly over the ancient wood. Jakes glances towards him and then looks hurriedly back to his work, tail between his legs; Strange watches silently.

“Just going to visit an old mate,” says Thursday, in an easy going tone. “Won’t be long.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Lott’s address hasn’t changed since his retirement; he still lives in the same old cottage just outside the city limits, the ancient roof slumping a bit deeper with each passing year. He obviously hasn’t used his free time to keep up with the garden; fall leaves lie untouched under a bare alder tree, while a straggly rose garden struggles to keep down the weeds in the dark earth below.

Thursday notes the light on inside as he rings the front doorbell. Above him smoke is rising from the chimney, white against the pale blue sky. The latch clicks, and then the door pulls open under Arthur Lott’s hand.

“Hullo, Arthur. Didn’t think we’d be meeting again like this,” says Thursday companionably, hands buried in his coat pockets.

Lott stares at him with a surprise that makes Thursday upgrade his mental assessment of Lott’s acting. “What, they’ve got DIs investigating car thefts, now?” asks Lott, sarcastically. “Solved all the real crimes then, have you? You and your bright young lad.”

“Funny you should mention him,” says Thursday, stepping in without being invited and forcing Lott to back up to avoid being treaded on. “Irene not in?” he asks in the same easy tone as he strides past Lott like a man making himself at home.

“She’s at her sister’s.” Lott closes the door behind him sullenly. “What’s this about, Fred?”

Thursday rounds on him before he can slip out of the entryway, pinning him against the door. His hands slip out of his pockets now, heavy and itching, and he slams one against the door over Lott’s shoulder. “Don’t play games, Arthur. What’s this about – your retirement? Or have you gone all the way from crooked to bent in your old age? Jumped into bed with Vince Kasper’s lot?” He doesn’t have to shout, just lets the words roll out in a furious growl. Lott always was a coward.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, but –”

“My bright young lad,” snarls Thursday, stepping closer and watching Lott flinch away. “A couple of your mates put him in the hospital last night. How smart was that, Arthur? Trying to send me a message? Well, you’ve got my attention – now what’s your plan?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about – I swear I don’t,” gabbles Lott, as Thursday raises his fist. There’s real fear in his eyes and also, if Thursday is any judge, real ignorance. “Morse was out here yesterday about the neighbour’s stolen car; that’s all.”

“And I should believe that, should I? From you?” He lets the disgust and the rage all pour into that last syllable together, thick and ugly. Lott’s head gives a stiff twitch, instincts trying to pull him away from Thursday while pride refuses. Thursday carries on, knotting the noose plainly for him to see. “You had it in for Morse from the moment he arrived – and he’s the perfect way to get back at me for giving you the push. Young DCs get roughed up – way of the world, right? And if it goes too far? Well, accidents happen.”

Lott collects enough courage to cut him off, eyes wide and lips white and dry with a mix of fear and frustration. “For God’s sake, Fred, I’ve got nothing to do with him being roughed up – you think I’m that dim? You’d break the neck of any bastard dumb enough to try that.”

Thursday leans in. “You’re right. I would.” He holds Lott there, close enough that Lott can see the truth in his eyes – a sure promise of retribution – and then steps back. “If I catch a sniff – just a _sniff_ that you’re involved in this, Lott –”

“On my honour – my life, then,” he revises angrily when Thursday raises a skeptical eyebrow, “it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“You’d better pray I don’t have cause to come back here, Arthur.” He lets Lott by him, then opens the door. “Goodbye.”

Thursday walks out without looking back. The door slams shut behind him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Strange waits a full five minutes after Thursday’s departure before standing, leaving Morse’s papers abandoned on his desk. He cuts through the office towards the door, making a slight detour to pass by Jakes’ desk on the way. “Can I have a word?” he asks, without slowing. Jakes, not given the opportunity to refuse, gets up and follows him.

Strange leads the way to the locker room, certain to be empty at this time of the morning, and steps into the small room smelling of sweat and socks and cheap aftershave. He waits for Jakes to follow him in and then casually leans his full 15 stone back against the door, effectively locking it.

“About Morse,” he begins, in a conversational tone. Jakes, in the middle of lighting a cigarette, stares at him in puzzlement.

“Morse?” Jakes strikes a match from a half-empty Moonlight Rooms book. “What about him?”

“Do you know anything about it?”

Jakes shakes out the match with irritation, flicking it into the garbage bin. “What kind of question is that? Of course I don’t – how would I? I’m not even on the case.” He takes a step towards the door; Strange doesn’t move.

Jakes has more than two years’ seniority on Strange, as well as far more arrests under his belt. On the other hand, Strange has mates throughout the station and the shire. He’s also acting with Inspector Thursday’s interests, if not currently his knowledge. And, if it comes down to it, he has four stone on Jakes.

Frankly, though, all that matters is that he’s acting for a friend.

Strange crosses his arms, and speaks bluntly “Look, Jakes, I know where you get your extra cash – so does half the station. And I know you’re not the only one on the take, not by a long shot. Me, I know it’s not my place to mind that, so I don’t. But Morse, he’s a bit funny about things like that. Coppers selling tips to the newspaper, or taking handouts, or worse. If he found out about something he couldn’t ignore, he would expose it. So: was someone trying to shut him up?”

Jakes stares at him, cigarette forgotten. Ash gathers on its end as it burns slowly towards his fingers, tiny flakes dropping one by one onto his expensive shoes. “You’re balmy. Where d’you get off talking like that, you jumped-up wet behind the ears little –”

Strange steps forward, and lets his height and weight talk for him. Jakes drops the cigarette and stares up at him, not backing down but not going for him, either. The smoke rises between them as the cigarette dies slowly on the tile floor.

“You wouldn’t have a part in it – I believe that,” says Strange, slowly. “But someone here giving Morse a pasting? I _know_ you’d have heard. So between me and these four walls: Who is it?”

Jakes shakes his head angrily, arm slicing out in a gesture of protest. “No one. I’m telling you, you’re wrong. No one’s got it in for Morse. Not like that. I’m sure there’s plenty of blokes’d like to see him fall on his arse, but no one’d push him. Besides, Thursday dotes on him – it’d be bloody suicide.”

It all rings true, Jakes’ tone most of all. And with most of the real old guard – the locker-room legends – cleared out in the wake of Lott and Crisps’ retirements and Bright’s appointment, Strange has trouble believing there are enough coppers so bent as to do something like this. Nor does Cowley Station feel like a nick that could keep that kind of secret, as much as it would make sense of the facts.

He steps aside, treading on the cigarette as he moves. Jakes shakes his head, muttering something profane under his breath, and pushes past him. “Don’t be getting above yourself, Strange,” he says, as he pulls open the door.

“Or what, matey?” asks Strange, face innocent. Jakes scowls at him and disappears out into the hallway.

Alone in the locker room, Strange rubs a hand over his forehead and finds it damp with sweat.

END PART 1


	2. Conclusions

As he leaves Lott’s cottage and his own red-hot rage in the Jaguar’s dust, Thursday gradually comes to the realisation that his only lead has also disappeared. Basket broken and all his metaphorical eggs spilt across the floor, he turns off the road to Cowley station and veers towards the hospital instead. He doesn’t have it in him to be sitting behind a desk right now.

The infirmary’s car park is mostly full when Thursday pulls in; DeBryn always complains about the volume of ‘flu cases and accidents the winter brings. As he crosses the asphalt, Morse’s notebook knocks gently against his leg with each step. It’s stuffed awkwardly in his pocket, and although it’s made from flimsy cardboard its presence weighs at him far more than a bar of gold would. 

The constable stationed outside Morse’s door gives him a nod as he exits the stairwell into the hospital hallway as he’s used to it – busy and bright. Thursday passes two nurses and a visitor in a tweed coat on his short walk to Morse’s room. 

The lights are on in here as well, shining down not just on Morse but also Dr. DeBryn standing on the far side of the bed. He looks up as Thursday enters and gives him a fleeting smile that holds no pleasure, just recognition. 

“How is he?” asks Thursday apprehensively, approaching the bed on the nearer side. In the bright lights, Morse’s colour looks at least somewhat healthier than it did last night in the greyness of the ward at night. On the other hand, the intervening hours have given the bruise on his cheek time to fully blossom into a deep, dark indigo. 

DeBryn blinks, owl-like, before understanding dawns. “Ah – I’m here in a personal capacity rather than a professional one. I don’t have privileges at the hospital. Well, not with the living,” he adds, pedantically.

“You’ve fixed him up before,” points out Thursday. 

“As a favour, yes. I was there, and he was stubborn.” He sees the look Thursday gives him and sighs. “It’s not exactly smiled upon,” he protests, rather weakly.

“It’s hanging right there.” Thursday points to the clipboard. “I could read it myself, only it wouldn’t tell me anything.”

DeBryn gives him a rather long-suffering look, but reaches out and picks Morse’s chart up off its hook. He pushes his glasses further up his nose with his forefinger before skimming over it. There are only two pages, both of which he looks at only briefly before replacing the board. “Everything looks fine – good vitals, no signs of internal bleeding or subdural haematoma – bleeding in the brain,” he expands. “But he still hasn’t woken up. Until he does, it’s impossible to give a full assessment.”

“It’s been more than twelve hours.”

“It’s not cause for alarm, not yet. Could be the result of stress and fatigue – Morse works himself hard, and he’s had a rough time lately both physically and emotionally. This could just be everything catching up with him.” DeBryn looks down at Morse, and Thursday can read the compassion there.

Although unconscious, Morse doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. Thursday’s only seen the DC asleep a few times – over his desk, in the backseat of a car (and once, terrifyingly, behind the wheel), on Thursday’s couch – but they were more than enough to show that Morse doesn’t lie, he sprawls. His stiff stillness here looks wrong, resembles a different type of rest all together. One that, for all Thursday knows, he might slip silently away into.

“Could he –” begins Thursday gruffly, looking away from Morse’s still form. He stalls out as his line pushes too steeply towards his unspoken fears; it’s a question he needs to ask, but it’s not an answer he can hear. 

“It’s too early to talk that way, Inspector,” says DeBryn, matter-of-factly in his doctoring voice, a reminder that he isn’t speaking from sentiment. “Morse has youth and health in his favour, and no worrying symptoms.”

Thursday’s eyes slide shut –less due to relief than to the abatement of the anxiety that’s been building relentlessly – as he sighs. 

“He does have a talent for getting under the skin, doesn’t he?” says DeBryn, more in commentary than question. 

Thursday leaves that one alone; it lies too near the heart. Instead, he straightens up and faces DeBryn. “I need something from you, Doctor. In your professional capacity.”

DeBryn raises his eyebrows questioningly, and Thursday nods towards Morse. “I want you to examine him. If he can’t speak, his injuries will have to speak for him. He hasn’t left enough to go on, otherwise.” Thursday’s hand, resting at his side, brushes against the corner of the notebook filled with useless trivialities. 

DeBryn gives Thursday a hard look, but whatever it is he’s searching for he must find it, because he nods slowly. “Very well. You’re correct: that is within my duties. Close the door, if you would.” He waits while Thursday does so, then pulls down the blanket and undoes the thin cloth ties at the back of Morse’s gown. He folds the thin cotton down over Morse’s hips, his face taking on a wooden aspect as he reveals the evidence of the violence done.

As with Morse’s face, the bruising here is considerably darker and more widespread after twelve hours and seen in bright light. Most of it is livid blues and purples, here and there highlighted by patches so dark as to appear black. The combination of the bruising and swelling gives Morse’s stomach an unnatural, unevenly distended appearance, as though his gut were filled with eggs. Thursday grits his teeth to keep from snarling.

DeBryn considers the bruises, leaning in closer to examine some, gently palpating others. After a few minutes he nods and places his hands on Morse’s shoulder and side. “I need to roll him – hold his shoulder.” He suits his actions to the words, pushing Morse towards Thursday, who grabs his shoulder awkwardly to hold him on his side. Morse’s skin is warm under his touch, warmer than he had for some reason imagined. But then, the only people he’s ever moved like this have been dead.

DeBryn sees what he needs to of Morse’s back in a shorter examination than the front took, and helps to lower him gently onto his back. He pulls the gown back on, tying it carefully while supporting Morse’s head in the crook of his elbow, then tucks the blankets back up fussily. 

Thursday expects the doctor to speak, but instead he reaches out and carefully pulls the plaster off Morse’s cheek. It comes slowly, adhesive peeling away from the pale skin with reluctance. There is indeed a cut there about an inch from the ear, tapering and somewhat comet-shaped. Restrictive pressure gone, dark red blood begins to well up slowly from the inside out almost immediately. Without the plaster it’s easier to see that the bruise is long and thin, following Morse’s rather angular cheek bone almost perfectly. 

DeBryn stares at it for several moments before carefully folding the plaster and putting it fastidiously on the narrow chest of drawers beside the bed. He then rummages through a couple of the drawers, finds another, and reapplies it before the blood has begun to seep out too thickly. Only then does he lean back and cross his arms, turning to face Thursday.

“It was mainly shoes that did this. I suspect from his cheek that he was struck hard in the face first, knocking him down, and that once on the ground his assailants used their feet. I say ‘their,’ but it may only have been one attacker – probably at least mostly one, anyway. There aren’t many bruises on his back, but a man being beaten rolls into the foetal position, so there isn’t much opportunity for two attackers to both get kicks in towards the stomach and chest. I understand from both the chart and the paramedic who informed me of Morse’s condition that the head wound was caused by his striking his skull on a kerb – either after one of the kicks or while attempting to stand on his own.”

Thursday frowns. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down, Doctor.”

“No, but that might.” DeBryn points at the now re-covered cut on his cheek. “It’s an odd wound; whatever caused it was long and thin and rounded, but with a thick, angled end piece. Rather like a socket wrench. Factory worker?” he suggests. “Or perhaps automotive repairs?”

Thursday looks up sharply. “Cars…”

“Well, could be. Does it suggest something?”

“Only that I may have been a bloody fool,” says Thursday, shaking his head as he pulls Morse’s notebook out of his pocket and flips through the last few pages. Names of witnesses taken in investigation of car thefts. 

“Happens to the best of us,” says DeBryn kindly, but Thursday’s already on his way out. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and glances back at the doctor. “Keep us posted, will you?” he says, and leaves without waiting for an answer.

\-----------------------------------------------------

“Car thefts,” roars Thursday as he enters the office, making the whole room startle. Jakes and Strange stand as he heads for them; they both look rather like they’ve swallowed something unpleasant. Thursday ignores it. “Sergeant Jakes – that’s what Morse was working on, isn’t it?”

Jakes nods, clearly uncertain where Thursday is going, and anxious about that uncertainty. “Yes, sir. String of car thefts over the past six months. All vehicles less than two years old, no broken glass or any other evidence of forced entry found at the scenes. None of the cars have been recovered. We had been treating them as separate incidents, but Morse figured there was a connection, started looking into them in that light. No evidence of it, sir, if you ask me, but –”

Thursday doesn’t wait to hear the rest of Jakes’ opinion, turns to Strange instead. “You have his casework. He must’ve pulled the files to go over it all together. Get me a list of all the names – everyone he might’ve seen in the past couple of days.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring it to me when you’ve got it.” Thursday leaves them to it; Bright will need an update, and he promised to ring Win at noon with one as well.

First, though, he takes Morse’s notebook out of his pocket and leaves it on his desk. He can’t count on Morse’s notes for thoroughness, that’s certain. And he’s going to do this properly. This time. 

Really, Morse must be rubbing off on him.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse mounts the ladder of consciousness slowly; smell, oddly, comes first – a sour, stinging scent that’s faintly alarming. It’s with that sense of wrongness that he comes more fully into real consciousness, pulling instinctively inwards even as he blinks awake to a painful brightness. As he does he’s aware of an unnerving pressure very close around him, like water held back by very thin glass.

“What’s happening?” is what he intends to say, but it comes out more as a confused groan. After a moment a large portion of the brightness goes away, and his vision clears as he stops squinting so tightly. 

“Morse?”

The world slides out and then into focus as he turns towards the sound, but his peripheral vision is consistently improving. He’s in a hospital room, he identifies by the uniform whiteness and the high metal bedframe. 

It’s that thought that prompts the descent of the pain that’s been hovering over him, as though the glass breaks and it rolls over him with crushing force. It’s spread all through him, but it isn’t uniform – some of it’s sharp and jagged, some heavy and dull – and the complexity of it makes it impossible to place what or where hurts. He just knows that it does – intensely. 

“Haah,” he manages, wincing. He doesn’t know what to do about it – there’s too much happening at once, and none of it makes any sense.

“Morse, do you know who I am? I know it hurts, but we can’t give you anything until you answer.” The voice is familiar, although he can only understand about half of the words.

He forces his eyes to focus further on the grey shape, makes out a pullover and spectacles. “DeBryn,” he says, his clawed hand fixing itself over DeBryn’s wrist resting on the bedside. “What’s happened?”

“You fell afoul of some angry men – details are still lacking.”

Something moves on his other side, and there’s a prick in his left arm. 

“Relax – it’s alright. This will help with the pain. You’ll be alright,” says a calm voice he doesn’t recognize. Morse wants to object to the patronisation, but the irritation seeps away before he can find the words. 

His eyelids feel very heavy. He closes them, just for a second. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

When Morse wakes next he feels much more like himself – so much so that his confused memories of waking up originally seem entirely like a dream. Even before he opens his eyes he can tell he has a headache, and a blunt, heavy pain sitting like a sandbag over most of his chest. It hurts, but it’s a measurable, understandable kind of pain. 

When he opens his eyes he finds that he’s still in the hospital room he only vaguely remembers, and that the ceiling lights are out. Enough light filters in through the open door that he can see clearly, though; easily clearly enough to make out Fred Thursday sitting on an uncomfortable-looking chair beside him, reading a book.

“You’ll go blind like that,” he says, discovering in the process that his mouth is appallingly dry. 

He forgets the fact almost immediately as Thursday raises his eyes from the book, and the look of concentration on his face opens out into such an expression of delighted surprise that Morse feels himself reflecting it without being able to help it.

“About bloody time,” Thursday says, as the book closes on his inattentive fingers. “They’ll be calling you Sleeping Beauty down at the nick if you don’t look out.”

Morse blinks. “The station?” Logic catches up with observation, and ties together neatly for him that pain plus hospital probably equals crime. “What _has_ happened?”

“Seems like you tumbled into the solution to your case without even noticing, is what happened,” says Thursday, with false severity. “Questioned the wrong bloke a mite too astutely. He got the wind up good and proper, and decided to send you a message.”

“Questioned – the car thefts?” asks Morse.

Thursday nods. “Turns out you were right – they were connected. A bloke from the shop – Todd Conners – was cutting keys and keeping them back. He let a year or two go by, then when he needed some ready cash all he had to do was stop by. He had the buyer’s addresses, and the keys. Picked up a couple from friends at other dealerships, just to keep it from looking too pat. A real thinker, Conners. In some ways. Thick as a pound of lard in others, of course.” Thursday pulls his fingers out of the book; Morse can’t help but notice the new cut on his knuckles. He looks away before Thursday can catch him noticing.

“And you put it all together in a few hours.”

Thursday’s face goes a bit strange – freezes, and then unfreezes into slightly overdone good humour. “Well, we had a few false starts. But you gave us a nice clue – that shiner on your cheek led us to Conners’ socket wrench, still with a bit of blood in the joint.”

“I aim to please.” He reaches up a rather shaky hand and gingerly touches his cheek – even the gentle pressure hurts. He finds the edges of a rough bandage stuck over a good portion of the bone. “I don’t remember it,” he says softly, glancing down at the white blanket stretched out over his aching torso.

“Doctor says you might not – you hit your head on the kerb somehow or another. You’ve been unconscious for a while; several people nearly had kittens.”

Morse snorts, and Thursday gives him an injured look. “It’s true. Our Win’s probably knitting you a muffler as we speak. Most’ve the nick’s been asking after you. And Mr. Bright’s pleased as punch.”

Morse smiles as he tries to imagine that; the nearest he can come is Bright’s trembling enthusiasm in the immediate wake of the royal visit. “I’m sure my recovery will spare him some paperwork.”

“You ought to have a better opinion of yourself,” Thursday retorts sharply, with such sincerity that Morse glances away. “I mean it, Morse. You’ve been missed. And it’s only been…” he glances at his watch, “well, less than a day.”

“How long will I be here?” asks Morse, eager to change the topic. Thursday’s glance suggests that he knows it, but he lets Morse get away with it.

“You’ll have to ask the doctor when he comes round. Nothing broken and no lasting injuries, so I shouldn’t think too long – a day or two, with that head wound. And a couple of days off afterwards. Ah – no argument,” he says, raising a finger when Morse makes to protest. “After all, I solved your case for you. Desk’s clear, might as well take advantage of it.”

“Yes, sir.” Thursday doesn’t look like a man willing to be argued with, and at the moment Morse doesn’t feel up to too much arguing anyway.

“Right then. I need to get back, but I brought you some of your books. A bit thick for my tastes, but there you are.” He stands and puts the book down on the table next to Morse’s bed on top of a small stack of familiar hardbacks: Plato’s Middle Dialogues, Euripides’ Electra, Don Quixote, and a thin Donne collection. It was the Donne Thursday was reading when he woke.

“Thank you, sir.”

Thursday moves towards the door, pulling his coat on as he goes. “You just concentrate on getting better. And Morse?”

“Yes, sir?”

Thursday pauses, eyes staring at something a long way away for a moment before coming back to focus on him, sharp as flint. “Don’t do this again.”

He’s gone before Morse finds his voice.

END


End file.
